


Not Good Enough

by Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Father-Child Relationship, Gen, Ghost is a child, Ghost isn't coping well with being the hero, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Mato adopts Ghost so Ghost dadopts him back, Painting, Sad Void Buggo, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus/pseuds/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus
Summary: Based on my recent struggles in the game and also me really missing my dad.Ghost isn't really coping well with having to fight all those godlike enemies to save Hallownest, and with all those failures piling up, perhaps the Pale King was right in casting them into the Abyss?...





	Not Good Enough

When the Knight, also known as Ghost of Hallownest, awoke next to Grimm’s sleeping form, they almost wished they hadn't.

They were the one who summoned the Grimm Troupe, who gathered the flames and willingly partook in the Ritual, helping their charge, Grimmchild, grow and mature, but they were too weak to bring it to a conclusion. Time and time again, the Nightmare King beat them into the arena floor and scorched their cloak until their shell was riddled with cracks and their shade writhed underneath, struggling to break free.

How were they supposed to defeat the Radiance and save their sibling if they couldn't even do this?

Dejected, they left the sleeping troupe master behind to head to the bench; perhaps a different charm set would make the task less arduous. It would've been easier if the King were available in the Hall of Gods so that Ghost could practise the steps of their fiery dance in peace, but he wasn't, and not even Ascended Grimm was of much help.

 _‘Maybe I just need a break from him,’_ they thought to themself, with no voice to speak the words out loud. _‘Maybe I could use a change.’_

Deciding that a refresher wouldn't indeed be a bad idea, they swapped Grimmchild for Sharp Shadow and headed towards Bretta’s dwelling; time to take their frustration out on Grey Prince Zote…

…

…

…

…

…

…

They staggered out through the door after a couple of hours, fortunately unnoticed by neither Zote nor Bretta, and all but stormed off towards the bench. Vessels weren't supposed to feel, but boy were they absolutely and utterly _furious._

How could such a graceless, fumbling apparition hit so hard and so often?! They had to face it fifteen bloody times before the third candle lit up, and twenty more before they gave up and left, dragging their useless pure nail behind them and muttering curses within their mind.

They also considered returning to battle the White Defender because Ogrim was a good friend of theirs and his attack patterns were easier to predict, but his attacks hit harder than Zote’s and, if Ghost were to be honest, being bested by a bug who threw literal dung around wouldn't have a good effect on their already miserable spirits.

Godhome, perhaps? They still had two pantheons to go through as far as they knew: the Sage and the Knight. The issue, however, was that the Knight was locked and would remain locked until they beat Great Nailsage Sly, who was a challenge even on his own in the Hall of Gods, not even mentioning having to battle him after going through the rest of the pantheon, exhausted and with a totally ineffective charm build. Besides, the little bastard was too damn fast for them, even with both Dash _and_ Sprintmaster equipped! He zoomed around the arena, that ridiculous nail of his somehow managing to strike them no matter how quickly they retreated out of his way. It wouldn't be even half as bad if he allowed them to heal, but no! They apparently weren't allowed to even stand in one spot for the few seconds it took for them to focus some of their Soul to heal their wounds. Yes, they tried Quick Focus and Shape of Unn. No, it didn't help.

Frustrated, they stood up and walked out of Dirtmouth, not even paying attention to where they were going. Sometimes, they really wished that they could lay down their nail and spend the rest of their days painting with Sheo or meditating with their master, Mato. How great would it be, to finally be free of the burden of Hallownest’s fate that rested on their shoulders wherever they went! How liberating would it be to not be responsible for the fate of the whole world! Void-black tears leaked out of their eye sockets as they viciously slashed at the incoming vengefly with their nail, not even bothering to pick up the geo that clattered to the ground. How wonderful would it be to at last be free of the duty they never asked for, never wanted to partake in! Why was it _their_ job to keep everyone safe?! Why was it _their_ job to end the Infection?! Why couldn't the Pale King fight his own damn battles instead of hiding away like the coward he was?! Why why why why why why why why why why why why…

_Why weren't they good enough?_

Ghost fell to their knees, head bowed and their tiny body trembling as void-tears stained the cold, lifeless ground. Lifeless, because they couldn't breathe life back into it no matter how hard they tried.

The Dreamers were all vanquished, the seals all broken. The Voidheart charm made them attuned to the regrets of the world around them, swarming around them no matter where they went like moths to a flame. If they could strangle one particular moth with their bare hands, snap her neck and pour all those regrets into her body, they would gladly do so without a moment of hesitation.

If only they could actually defeat her.

But they couldn't.

They weren't good enough for their father, discarded and thrown into the Abyss just because they were capable of emotions just like every other bug out there, and they weren't good enough now. Not good enough to complete the Ritual, not good enough to best all the Pantheons… not even good enough to give Zote a well deserved ass-kicking.

What _were_ they good for? What joy did they bring into the world?

If not for their mission to end the Infection, they thought gloomily, getting up to their feet, they would've thrown themself back into the Abyss and stayed there like the failure they were.

Now, where exactly were they? They looked around, taking in the great wasteland around them littered with platforms and ledges and populated only by vengeflies and tiktiks, the only sound being the howl of the wind.

Ah, the Howling Cliffs.

 _‘At least it's not Deepnest,’_ they thought with a voiceless sigh. Can't really catch a break there, what with absolutely everything being out to either kill you, eat you, or both. (Usually both.) No, the Cliffs were a pleasant enough place in comparison, tranquil and populated with non-lethal fauna. The only frustrating part was the spikes, but those weren't anywhere near as common as in, say, the southern part of the Crossroads or the eastern part of the Greenpath. In fact, they were only really annoying around Gorb’s statue or the entrance to Nailmaster Mato’s hut.

They looked in that direction, something tugging at their Void painfully. Mato was such a lovely teacher, approaching every lesson with joy and enthusiasm. They could still remember how overjoyed he was when they agreed to learn under him, the memory lifting their spirits just a little. He had said that they were a good pupil, too, even going as far as referring to them as his child.

Even though their real father had discarded them, Mato saw them as something extraordinary. To him, they didn't have to be “Pure”, or “Hollow.” Heck, they didn't even have to kill anyone! All they had to do was visit once in a while and meditate with him. That was enough.

They....

They were enough…

Tears starting anew, they sprinted towards the hut, tripping over their own feet and falling into the spikes once or twice because they could barely see where they were going. It hurt. It hurt so much. Tears kept flowing as they finally found the tunnel and sped past the scattered bodies and discarded nails, not even stopping to rest on the bench on the way to the Nailmaster.

It hurt so much. Everything hurt. They weren't good enough for anything, deemed worthless by everyone except for this one bug who saw them as something worth loving.

Mato looked up when they entered the room and crashed into him, silently weeping into his cloak as they clung to him as tightly as they could. He tensed momentarily, and for a second they were sure that he would be angry, yell at them, throw them out and into the spikes outside, discard them like their father did.

But he didn't.

Instead, Mato picked them up gently and began to dry their tears with the hem of his cloak.

“What's wrong, my pupil?” he asked, concern ringing clear in his voice. “Are you hurt?”

They shook their head. No. Yes. They weren't hurt. Everything hurt. Everything hurt and it wouldn't stop.

He sat down, cross-legged, and tried to set them down on his lap, but they didn't let him, clinging to his cloak as more tears leaked out of their eye sockets.

_‘Please don't let me go.’_

They couldn't explain why, but being held by Mato soothed them, made that nigh unbearable pain recede just a little, almost like sitting next to Quirrel on that bench in the City of Tears.

_Quirrel…_

“There, there,” Mato pressed them close, hugging them tightly, but not tightly enough to damage their shell. “Just let it all out, little one. I'm here.”

He was still worried, Ghost could sense the undercurrent of concern still present in his voice beneath the tenderness. How peculiar it was to have someone genuinely worrying about their wellbeing! And those words, _“I'm here,”_ suggesting an instinct to protect instead of assault, to ease the burden instead of only adding to it.

“You're safe now,” he muttered, rocking them gently from side to side like one would calm a crying grub after a nightmare. “Whatever sorrows haunt you, I won't let them hurt you further.”

It was so… comforting. Mato didn't know what was plaguing them, but wished to soothe them nonetheless, protect them even if those sorrows couldn't be defeated with nail alone. He cared. He cared so much that it hurt them to think about it. He took in this small, worthless vessel burdened with a task beyond their abilities and cared about them even if everything they did ended with a failure.

Mato… Mato loved them.

Ghost continued to cry into his cloak, the tears returning into their body a couple of seconds after being shed. They were… overwhelmed by everything, and the proximity of this large bug who would be ready to cross nails with the Radiance herself for their sake helped. It really, truly helped. He was warm, and soft, and safe, and would protect them if something bad were to happen. He was also humming something, a melody they were unfamiliar with but which soothed them for some reason, their tears drying out as they felt themselves nodding off, drifting in and out of sleep until it claimed them completely.

~~~

They woke up in a cot, wrapped up in blankets and a familiar cloak. Nearby, they saw Mato cleaning his nail with a piece of cloth. He beamed when he saw them sit up.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, oblivious to the fact that they weren't supposed to feel and that their ability to do so was effectively a curse.

Ghost nodded, approaching him with his cloak draped around their shoulders and dragging behind them. And they really did! Maybe it was the rest, or the fact that they finally got to let all their frustrations out, or just having someone take care of them for once instead of the other way around, but the overwhelming ache in their shell was reduced to a dull throb, barely noticeable.

Mato allowed them to crawl into his lap and set his nail aside to wrap his cloak around the two of them.

“I'm glad, then. I would hate to see my child upset and be unable to do anything about it.”

Oh yes, he saw them as his child, a thing to be treasured and nurtured instead of sacrificed or thrown away. The notion was still alien to Ghost, so they produced a quill and a spare sheet of parchment they bought from Iselda.

 _“Why?”_ they wrote, their handwriting a little shaky and heavily based on Cornifer’s, because it was the only one they could decipher.

Mato seemed to not understand the question.

“Why?” he repeated. “Because I care about you and wish you to be happy! Did your father not comfort you when you were upset?”

 _“Not good enough for Father,”_ they wrote, thinking that it was the gentlest way of putting it. _“Rejected.”_

Now, there was an emotion on Mato’s face that they've never seen on him before: pure and righteous fury.

“Not good en- how DARE he?!” he slammed his fist against the floor. “Is this why you wander alone?”

They nodded.

_“Many like me. Discarded. I have escaped, survived. They did not.”_

Mato’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me,” he began, voice trembling, “that your father discarded you and your siblings, abandoned you and left you for dead, because you weren't _good enough_ for him?”

They nodded, not really understanding why he was so upset about the matter. Didn't all bugs do that? The weaker children had to perish for the stronger to survive; they could recall the Hunter saying something like that in his journal. Take aspids, for example; the mothers used their young to shield themselves from danger, sacrificing as many as it took to eliminate the threat so that the others within them could eventually grow into maturity. The thoughts and feelings of the doomed children didn't matter; only the continued survival of the parent.

 _“No cost too great,”_ they wrote, then hung their head as they thought about their siblings resting at the bottom of the Abyss and the one trapped in the Temple below them, _“as long as the parent isn't the one to pay the price.”_

Mato considered the words for a couple of moments, shoulders heaving with deep breaths he took as he summoned every ounce of his self-control nurtured during his training to not track that wretch down and make him pay for abandoning his children, especially one as extraordinary as his dear little apprentice. He was never an angry bug, he liked to think, even after Oro’s betrayal, but now? After having to hold his weeping child in his arms and learning that he might have been the first to ever do so? Oh, he was _furious._

But nevermind, he swept the thoughts from his mind. His child didn't need anger, didn't need violence; he wagered that their life was full enough of these things as it was. No, what they needed in this moment was tenderness. Love. Comfort. With one last sigh, he tilted their chin upwards to make them look at him.

“My child,” he said gently. “Can you write down your name for me?”

Ghost nodded, scribbling it down before realising that this was the first time anyone has ever asked them about it.

_“Ghost.”_

“Ghost, I like it,” Mato smiled when he read it. “It suits you, and I'm sorry that I haven't asked you about it before; I didn't know that you can write.”

They shook their head, indicating that no harm was done.

“I want you to listen to me now, Ghost,” he said, voice so serious that they instantly complied. “Don't let anyone ever tell you that you're not enough. Ever. Because you are. You're the most amazing little bug I've ever come across, and I mean both your skills with a nail and your personality.”

(Ghost wasn't aware that they had one, but okay.)

“I've seen you fight, I've seen that charm you carry, bestowed upon you by the Great Nailsage himself. Do you think that he gives those to just anyone?”

They shook their head. Sly rarely gave anything away, especially for free.

“You are the strongest, bravest little thing I've ever met, Ghost,” Mato told them, and they felt something break within them. Tears filled their eyes again. “You've worked so hard to come to where you are right now, master all those skills and earn the honour of carrying this charm. It wasn't always easy, and I'm sure that you didn't always emerge victorious, but you tried time and time again and persevered. Do you have any idea how admirable you are?”

Although it was a rhetorical question, they shook their head, and Mato wiped their tears once more. The gesture was so tender, loving, that they couldn't help but lean into his touch. It was so, so rare for them to be touched in a non-violent way that every time it did happen felt like the first.

“I don't know much about your past, but from what you've told me you're the bravest little thing in Hallownest,” he told them, embracing them again. “Believe me, I have no words to convey how proud I am of you for making it this far, but even you have to lay down your nail once in a while. Sometimes I think that Sheo was right in choosing the path of a painter, you know. Fighting takes a toll on you, and your failures build up until you feel like they'll burst out of you.”

How did he know? How did Mato know so well that exhaustion, the frustration that perpetrated their whole being? Surely such a formidable master like him was never in such a position.

Evidently guessing their thoughts, Mato chuckled to himself.

“I know the struggle well,” he admitted, rubbing their back comfortingly. “I was the weakest of us three, you know.”

What?! Ghost reached for the parchment and quickly scribbled down _“Impossible!”,_ prompting another chuckle.

“Yes! I was never quite as strong as Oro, or as nimble as Sheo. I often found myself feeling worse than them, not good enough to become a Nailmaster…”

 _“NO! Great Nailmaster! The greatest! Best!”_ they wrote quickly and messily, single words instead of full sentences. How could Mato ever think like this? He was such a good fighter, and training with him was by far more pleasant than training with Oro or painting with Sheo. How could he ever think that he wasn't good enough?

Mato smiled, patting the top of their head. “I'm honoured that you think so highly of me, but yes. I used to be the weakest of my brothers. In fact, sometimes I even lost faith that I would ever become a Nailmaster! But you know how I got where I am today?”

They shook their head.

“I did three things, three very important things. Would you like to know what those things were?”

A nod.

“First of all,” he began to count on his fingers, “I tried time and time again, never giving up. Second, I took my time with things; I stopped when I needed to and took rests to not burn myself out, sometimes even going days without raising my nail until I felt ready once more.”

_“And the third thing?”_

He placed a hand on their shoulder.

“I never, ever allowed myself to think that I'm not good enough.”

They sat in silence for a couple of moments, Ghost pondering his master's words as they toyed with the edge of their cloak. Eventually, Mato spoke up.

“It took me longer than it took my brothers, but I got there eventually. I took my time, especially with the moves I found difficult; I didn't rush into battle, but first studied my opponent, or the sequence of moves I had to replicate, until I knew them like the back of my hand. Then, I trained and rested, trained and rested until I finally got it right.”

“Don't let anyone tell you that you're not enough, my pupil,” his gaze softened, and they could spot a spark of sadness hiding within, “especially someone you look up to. Whoever your father is, he made a mistake in letting go of you, and if I ever cross paths with him,” his hands tightened into fists, “I swear to make him pay for all the misery he has caused to you and your siblings.”

Ghost didn't want to dispel the illusion that the Pale King was someone Mato had even a shred of a chance with, so they merely nodded, indicating that they appreciated the sentiment.

 _“Thank you,”_ they wrote, then _“May I stay?”_ As comforted as they were, they didn't feel ready to leave their teacher yet.

He beamed at them, his smile bright and warm like the Radiance’s light (only not as deadly.) “Of course you may! My door is always open to you and seeing you visit always makes this dark abode a little less gloomy.” His smile widened when they hugged him once more, basking in this warmth and the feeling of being loved for what they were, not hated for what they weren't.

They thought about fatherhood, of Mato and the Pale King and... Grimm, strangely enough. Never in their entire life did they think to question their father's methods or consider them anything other than just. However, the more they thought about Mato’s words, the more they recognised that Grimm, out of all bugs they met on their travels, fitted the model better than he did.

 _“Burn the father, feed the child,”_ sang the Grimmkin. Indeed, Grimm was more than happy to let his body be consumed by the flames of the Nightmare Heart so that Grimmchild could continue to grow. He was ready to die so that they could live, not the other way around like some wyrms out there. He spoke of his child with fondness and strived to see them healthy and happy, even at the cost of his own wellbeing. The Nightmare King, as strange as it sounded, was a good father.

They then thought about Mato’s words, his care and warmth, and the way he embraced them, allowing them to cry into his cloak even though he had no idea what was plaguing them. Then there was also the fact that they woke up in his bed, swaddled up safe and warm, while he contented himself with sitting on the floor nearby as if to watch over them. He was willing to comfort and protect them, even if both were beyond the scope of his abilities.

 _“Believe me, I have no words to convey how proud I am of you.”_ They would go through the Path of Pain again and again until nothing remained of their body just to hear these words from their father…

…

They raised their head, realisation striking then all of a sudden. Was the Pale King truly their father, or maybe just their creator? After all, who said that those things were one and the same? A father was someone who took care of you, nurtured you through the good and the bad times no matter what you did or were or weren't. A father would never discard their child or purposefully hurt them in any way. A father would strive to comfort them and guard them against any danger, with his own life if need be. A father wiped their tears and offered guidance through times of struggle, and shared their happiness through times of joy.

Their father wasn't the Pale King.

Their father was…

Ghost looked up at Mato once more, seeing him in a new light entirely. If he really considered them his child, then it was only fair for them to consider him their father as well, right?

They reached into their bag for another roll of parchment and a brush they got from Sheo at one point and began to paint, bottles of coloured ink purchased from Iselda clinking against each other. They usually used those for mapping out different areas of Hallownest - green for the Greenpath and the Queen's Gardens, violet for the Fog Canyon and the Crystal Peak, and so on - but this time they had a more important purpose for them.

Line by line, the drawing came together. They used up red (previously used to mark the flames on their map) to draw a headband and some details, and black and grey for the cloak and outlining. Then, they used the City of Tears blue to draw themself, purely because it was their favourite colour.

Mato watched them draw, eyes widening as the lines came together into a rather childish picture of him and his pupil holding hands, with four simple words written underneath, each letter in a different colour:

_“I love you, father.”_

He was a Nailmaster, which also came with a great deal of self-control, so he waited patiently until Ghost put all their spillable drawing supplies away and and allowed the ink to dry before sweeping them in a hug, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

“I love you too,” he choked out, pressing a kiss to their forehead. “My wonderful child, I love you so much.”

Ghost, who didn't expect quite an intense display of emotion, was momentarily too shocked to move. However, that passed quickly and they found themself hugging back with all their strength, wishing that they could speak and laugh and say these words out loud over and over again until their voice grew hoarse. Truth be told, they were afraid at first of how the Nailmaster would react to the gift. Would the writing be too much? Would he laugh at their pitiful attempts at art? They didn't really practise much outside of Sheo’s hut, so their artistic skills were by no means spectacular, but…

...but to Mato, they were enough.

Mato held them at arm’s length, looking down at them with so much love that they suddenly wanted to race to the Queen's Gardens and bring him a bouquet of Delicate Flowers bigger than their entire body.

“You will always be enough for me, my child,” he told them before pulling them back into his arms. "You're more than enough."

 _Two_ bouquets, they corrected.

~~~

Ghost returned to Dirtmouth a couple of days later, having spent them either training, meditating, or simply spending time with their teacher…

...father, they corrected themself, almost skipping towards the small town with joy they felt so rarely these days. It was as if their whole body was light as a feather, the burden of responsibility gone from their shoulders at last. True, Hallownest still had to be saved, but for the first time in quite possibly months, they found that they felt capable of standing up to the challenge.

They found that they were good enough.

When they strode into Grimm’s tent later on, head held high and their grip on their nail surer than ever, they emerged from his dream victorious.

 _“Pantheon of the Sage,”_ they thought merrily as Grimmchild nuzzled up to them, _“here I come!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this is based on something I actually did in-game like two days ago - I got so frustrated by getting my ass handed to me by the (un)holy trinity of NGK, GPZ and the Radiance (plus Sly for a good measure) that I just fucked off to the Howling Cliffs to chill with Mato because he makes me happy and the option to sit with him doesn't trigger Salubra’s Curse, so I don't have to listen to her all the fucking time. Self-care, ya know.


End file.
